


Funeral Pyre

by bexacaust



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Broken Promises, Gen, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 06:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11962059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexacaust/pseuds/bexacaust
Summary: There are a thousand metaphors for housefires, for forest fires. For beginnings that all come down to a well placed spark.But no one talks about the fires that burn out of control… and leave nothing behind.Not even ghosts.





	Funeral Pyre

And once, oh once, they were inseparable. They were twin windtunnels, twin cyclones raining down retribution with pretty words and broken social artifacts. They were wings and writings on the wall. They were sentinels of the new dream, of a new kind of hope…

And it all fell apart.

Once, they were a binary system- orbiting each other in rings of color and light and all manner of glorious stardust trails. Two comets blazing a trail across a new night sky.

And then the ground came up too fast.

And then came titles and ranks. And then came a shifting in the unmoving stone plates of their alliance and something went wrong. Somewhere, somehow… a stray spark caught parchment and praise and hymns went up in pretty flames- burning away and away and forever and a day; lighting up the lines that turned every smile into a sneer, that made optics looks hooded and cunning and sly where they once were determined. Where they once were proud.

And the fire burned unchecked. It licked up the foundations of what they were; it collapsed the beams and shattered the windows into molten and glimmering headstones of What Once Was. It tore down the staircase, it cracked the kitchen tile and it peeled the enamel from the sinks; it ate through paint and plenty and left nothing but tattered and blackened shreds of praise hanging in empty space to be carried away by bursting billows of heated air and heated words.

And the soil suffocated under the hot ashes and the seedlings everyone watches for after the flames rage into silence died before they were born. And with back turned to each other they stalked down their separate paths; each intent to not look back first.

Somewhere, that changed to just never look back.

But….

Sometimes, when they are alone, they remember. They remember a time before Warlord. Before Air Commander. They remember a time of first name basis and midnight fears discussed by old lamplight. The memories come hard and fast like the last of the framework falling down in scorched chunks of dead and petrified wood and the remember.

And they remember how much it hurt when it burned. How much it stung to run cool water over the blisters when all was said and done- blisters in the shape of “good bye” and of “good riddance”.

There is nothing left of what they built. There is nothing left of who they were, of how they started-

It still burns, the embers still scald their servotips.

It burns in the shape of names.

Megatron.

Starscream.

_Warlord._

_Air Commander._

**_Fool._ **

**_Traitor._ **

There’s a thousand metaphors for life returning to the scene of a burning catastrophe-

So many, that sometimes it becomes easy to forget about the fires that leave nothing but old ash like dirty snow and a burnt door that will never open again.


End file.
